En Aletheia, Philos
by Starbrow
Summary: Peter has always sought the respect and obedience of his brother, but his utmost love and trust? That takes a skill beyond that of the strongest warrior and proudest King. Golden Age fic, lots of brotherly Peter/Edmund angst, drama, bonding, and if you're good, fluff and cookies. Set after "Between Worlds".
1. Progress

En Aletheia, Philos

_by Starbrow_

**Summary: **Peter has always sought the respect and obedience of his brother, but his utmost love and trust? That takes a skill beyond that of the strongest warrior and proudest King._  
_

**Rating:** K+ for now, may change if the action gets more violent.

**Notes**: This picks up directly where the last chapter of "Between Worlds" leaves off. While I had told the perspectives I set out to tell in that story, there was still some unfinished business that I wanted to address - namely Peter and Edmund's broken relationship on the communication lines. Why can't Ed just _talk_ to Peter about his problems? Cause he's always gotten struck down, that's why! I've set out to fix that in this story and build the foundation of the next fifteen or so years of their brotherhood. Plus, it means Peter/Edmund fluff at the end of it. Yay! This can be read separately or together with "Between Worlds," although the proper explanation of what's going on here can be found at the end of that story. With no further ado...

* * *

Whicker flicked his ears back at Peter. He always knew when something was up. Of course, he was not a _Talking_ Horse, but his more loquacious brothers had recommended Houyhnhnm-Whinny-Hee-Whicker to the High King for his discretion, composure, and uncanny perception of his rider's moods. And he did not complain quite so much as the Talking Horses when his name was promptly shortened to a manageable syllable or two.

"Good lad," Peter murmured with a fond pat of the faithful steed's withers, before nudging him to break into a trot and catch up with Edmund a half dozen paces ahead.

He would never understand how Edmund had come to be chosen by Philip, the most droll and stubborn of the royal stables, nor why the Horse insisted on remaining his mount even after the crisis of imminent battle was over. (For bearing human riders, even the King, was not counted exactly as _quite the thing_ among the Talking set.) But Peter had to admit, they were a pair and a half.

He pulled up beside Philip, who gave him a great roll of the eye and huffed at Whicker, who huffed back. Peter was very sure they were talking about him. Well, the concern was wasted on him – Edmund was the one who was acting queerly. He had not said much during their brief training session that morning while they awaited the arrival of the Archenland cohort….but…

"Not too tired, Ed?" asked Peter, turning to look at his brother in the fading afternoon light. He paused before adding, "Lucy says you haven't been sleeping much lately." Peter braced for the retort he and the girls had come to expect for their troubles lately, but he would take anger over silence any day.

It didn't come. Edmund grinned at him. "Lucy always did like to sneak into our room when she couldn't sleep, didn't she? Guess it's hard to break the habit. Especially when she knows the castle better than anybody there, with all its secret corridors."

Peter was most certainly not expecting _that._ Whicker tossed his head; astonishment was not an emotion he endorsed. After a few moments of considering the best approach, Peter settled on continuing this new lighthearted thread. "I know," he answered ruefully. "It's almost impossible to say _no _to her. Still our baby sister, even as a Queen." _Our_. It sounded good to his ears.

"She always could tell, you know," said Edmund, but didn't immediately continue. Peter looked hard at his brother, trying to discern what he meant exactly, while searching his face for clues. That was the other odd thing about Edmund today – his face was untroubled by the lines of strain and reserve that had recently clouded his countenance, but more than that, it seemed to almost…glow? That must be a trick of the light. Yet there was no denying that Edmund's eyes had no darkness in them anymore, only pure steady frankness.

The clatter of hooves ahead of and behind them was the only sound for several minutes, as Peter waited for him to continue.

"Back when – you know, I started to go wrong, back in England – Lu always could tell when things weren't quite right," Edmund explained at last. "Even when no one else saw it. A fellow can't have many secrets around someone like her."

Peter suddenly felt intensely envious of how simple Lucy made it to love Edmund. She was the first to hug him back into their family when he was returned to them and no one could think of what to say. The first to smile and say "that's alright!" when he made a royal muck of things. And the only one to push into his room and his heart when he had started systematically shutting them all out. He _envied_ the closeness she felt to Edmund, as close as between her and Peter or Susan, where nothing Edmund said or did could shake it. And he envied the way Edmund spoke of her, like she understood him and did not shy away from him when he needed someone to simply be there. Peter wished he was that someone.

His voice was oddly husky as he replied, "You avoided the question, you know. This time – well, it's not going to be as easy as before this time. I don't want you to fight if you aren't feeling up to it." It was clumsy, but it was the best Peter could come up with on the spot. Nobody ever accused him of being good at this feelings business.

Whicker pranced uneasily at this disturbance in his rider's equilibrium. Peter stroked his neck reassuringly.

"Don't worry about me," said Edmund, an extraordinary gentleness in his tone. Almost as though he was worried about _Peter's_ concern. "Everything will really be all right this time. I'll – I'll explain later. But, Narnia is much more important right now. Like you said, there's some nasty work ahead of us."

Peter nodded, although he had not yet put the question of Edmund out of his mind. "Thank the Lion for the centaurs. At least we need not worry about the fires further ravaging Narnia's borders, thanks to their swift work."

"Yes, now we only have ravenous Weres and Hags to deal with," said Edmund drily. "Quite a relief, that."

Peter knew that it was just Edmund's way to make light of things he actually cared deeply about, however that didn't make it any easier to hear of the lands under the clear Northern sky, Peter's own charge, so lately under siege of flame and destruction, bantered about. "Now Ed, look here –"

"Peter, _don't _lets argue any today. Today of all days," Edmund pleaded. Peter looked down at the pommel of his horse, whose back was currently tensed with anticipation. He sighed. How easily he slipped back into old ways.

"Very well," Peter conceded, kneeing wary Whicker to sidle close to Philip. Close enough that he could reach a hand and place it, as a brother might, on Edmund's thin shoulder. Underneath them, Whicker shuddered and Philip gave an answering _humph!_ "Pax?"

Edmund's face still shone as though lit from within. It must have been the way the setting sun shone through the trees onto their path. "Pax. Of course. It's what we're here for." He reached out to touch Peter in return, but at that moment Philip danced away, snorting _Humans!_ under his breath, and Peter dropped his arm, the moment broken, and urged his steed toward the gap between them and Edmund cantering away.

But til dusk when they broke for camp, Peter did not speak again but wove his hands in Whicker's well-combed mane and tried to absorb through its dense threads all of the powers of discernment that he himself had somehow missed when Fate was divvying up attributes to her playthings.

* * *

Author's notes:

"Houyhnhnm" is the name of the intelligent race of horses in Gulliver's Travels, and is apparently where Lewis got the name of Hwin and his other onomatopoeic Horse names. I _think_ it's pronounced "Hooee-hin-hin-um" or something like that ;-).

The original plan was to write a one-and-done but obviously, this is turning into a many-legged monster. Thanks to **WillowDryad** for the eager encouragement to write this beast!

More?


	2. Joy

**A/N: **The title of this story is my feeble attempt to merge my Biblical Greek minor with Lewisian philosophy. Essentially, it translates to "In truth, (there is) brotherhood." Apt, no? And from the sublime to the ridiculous, the soundtrack to this chapter is unofficially…um….*whispers*….Linkin Park's "What I've Done." Yeah. That's all. Here we go.

* * *

They made camp that evening on the far west edge of Owl Wood. Over a late dinner, Peter met with the war lords of the few squadrons that had ridden out with them. Archenland had even sent a small cohort of cavalry, led by a Lord Therin, to lend their aid to the Narnians, for the Great River which ran along the entire length of the realm also was a direct route from the Witch's castle into the foothills of Archenland itself. (Not to mention that relations with King Lune were extremely good, so much so that if Peter had asked them to send help, he would have received an immediate and enthusiastic response. He had not asked, but apparently news of the crisis had spread, and it had warmed his heart to receive news of the coming reinforcements.)

Pouring over the several maps of their intended route and destination, along with the several reports of where the trouble was centralized, they narrowed in on the plains between the mountains of Ettinsmoor and the two hills that enclosed the White Witch's castle. It was the general consensus that the foul army may well be using the fortress as a camp (or, more distressingly, a homing beacon for evil spirits and all manners of wicked things). If the allies continued at their current pace, they would likely reach the southern edge of the mountains by next nightfall.

Peter was uneasy at the thought of coming upon the Witch's minions without the advantage of daylight to show exactly who and where their enemies were. It would not be so bad if there were only stragglers to hunt down, but all accounts that had come to them told of an alarmingly large and organized pack of Weres who were roaming the northern borders leaving destruction in their wake. Residents of the outermost Western Woods had also sent word of hauntings, more numerous and frequent than ever before. He did not know precisely what they would find there – was that the extent of the Witch's leftovers, or were there even darker things lurking in her den? Looking around at his commanders' faces, Peter knew he was not the only one with these questions. He watched the fire die, one hand resting on Rhindon's hilt in his familiar custom of touching it for reassurance, in a way that had nothing to do with immediate danger.

Under the canopy of the usually so cozy Wood, there was a slight feeling of unease amongst the Beasts and Men, who were slow to find sleep that night, though they must ride hard in the morning. Peter rose, taking his bedroll from Whicker's pack and making sure the good animal was comfortable for the evening. With one last pat of the chestnut head, Peter looked around the darkening encampment, knowing where he would find his brother.

Edmund had withdrawn a ways away from the center of camp, in his usual habit of bedding down far from the others, with Philip for company and guard. It was a rare moment of solitude, the only one they might get during the journey, and the last time they might talk without other ears, less friendly ones, to overhear. (Have you ever tried to whisper to someone while you both are horseback riding? It tends to be a less than successful venture.)

Peter went to him, finding Edmund lying on his side with a very far away look in his eyes. Curled up in his blanket with his head in his hand, Edmund looked more like the little boy that he was in England than the resolute King he wanted to be in Narnia. Peter smiled involuntarily as he approached the boyish figure and knelt down beside him.

On the other side of Edmund, Philip exhaled a loud_ "bbphhh!"_ and gazed banefully around at him. Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Need anything, Peter?" asked Edmund, glancing curiously at him.

"A moment, Philip?" said Peter. The poor Horse was hardly eager to rise from his comfortable bed of grass and find a new one, but he inclined his head with a polite, "Of course, your majesty," and stretched his legs and moved off toward the other Horses in the camp, leaving them alone together.

Peter laid out his bedroll next to Edmund and stretched out beside him. There was a comfortable pause before Peter spoke. "Everyone seems to be having trouble sleeping tonight. It's not like Narnians to fear the night."

"I don't think it's the night they fear," said Edmund. "There's something else out there. I can't tell what, but I feel like it keeps drawing closer."

Peter frowned and glanced around them, but darkness enveloped the forest beyond their little clearing, and he could see nothing but faint shadows of the trees. Edmund's profile, by contrast, was clearly delineated, dark eyes shining out of his pale face. Peter did not think it was simply his night-adjusted vision that made Edmund look as though a light had been ignited beneath his skin.

"Do you think it is close?" Peter asked, wondering if they should rejoin the others for safety.

"No, it is far off yet. Perhaps all the way to the enemy we're seeking." Edmund did not seem afraid, but he was not perfectly at rest either. However, Peter saw a marked difference in this Edmund when compared even with the Edmund of this morning. For one thing, this was the most he had talked to Peter in _weeks_, and he didn't seem in danger of shouting or clamming up. For another, the steely tension that had been written over his face and body during those weeks was gone, replaced with a calmness and stillness that reminded Peter of the transformed Edmund after the Great Battle of Beruna. But lastly and most curiously, his face was strangely older and nobler, and a kind of greatness seemed to hang on him.

Was this really his kid brother, who he'd thought looked so boyish a moment ago? Who yesterday morning was knocking over chairs at the breakfast table shouting at them to leave him alone? Peter felt as if he lay beside a stranger, but one whom he desperately wished to know better.

Impulsively he reached over and took Edmund's hand in his own. It was smaller of course, whiter than his in the darkness, but with the same callouses on palm and thumb and knuckles. "Ed –" Peter's voice dropped to a low murmur. "Won't you tell me what's going on? Why you've changed so? You're _glowing_ , for pete's sake!"

Edmund looked faintly embarrassed. "Sorry. It wasn't intentional. It just happens I think, after you've seen _him._"

Oh Aslan. _Thank you_, breathed Peter silently, relief flooding his body at the warmth of Edmund's last words. There was no question of who he meant. Everything fell into place – the weeks of frustration, the renewed vigor of Edmund's training that morning, the unexpected flow of conversation and ease in his face that spoke of a greater change than could be explained by mere happenstance.

Peter gripped Edmund's hand more tightly. "You saw Aslan, today?"

Edmund looked at him hard for a moment, considering. Then he nodded. "In the armoury. I – well, I suppose I was calling to him, even though I didn't realize it. Or maybe he was calling to me. And I _saw_ him, Peter! For the first time since the coronation, I saw him."

Edmund's entire face was transformed as he spoke, alive with joy and wonder at the privilege of his encounter. Peter felt a twinge of envy, but quickly pushed it aside to share in his brother's pleasure in seeing Aslan. "What did he say, Ed?" he asked curiously. "How did he come to be there?"

"Well – " Edmund paused, and joy was mixed with pain for a second. "He told me – not to despair. That we weren't alone, and never would be. He – " Edmund bit his lip.

"Tell me, Ed," Peter urged. He spoke in a whisper now, and with his free hand he gently drew Edmund's head till it rested next to his own. Edmund's eyes were very dark.

"Oh Peter," he breathed. "I never knew. I had no idea till today. _You_ must have known. How could you bear to look at me, knowing – _that! _"

"Knowing what?" Peter said, ever so softly.

"That Aslan died for me," confessed Edmund, the old reproach returning to his face.

Peter did not know what to say. It was true, he and the girls _had_ known, and had kept it from him for fear the knowledge would be too great for him to bear. Lucy had wanted badly to tell him, and only the dire warnings of Susan and Peter's combined opinion that such a revelation would hurt Edmund deeply, convinced Lucy to keep mum. Were they wrong to do so?

"So you did know," said Edmund, scanning Peter's face with a piercing gaze. "Then why in _Aslan's Name_ didn't you tell me?" he demanded. "Don't you think I had a right to know that? It was _my _fault. He didn't die for any of your treachery. He died for mine."

"That was why, Edmund," said Peter heavily. "It wasn't our story to tell. What was done was past. And…" It sounded so inadequate. "…we did not wish to hurt you so."

"Hurt _me?_" asked Edmund, incredulous. "Are you joking, Peter? After what I did to you? That should be the last thing you'd worry about. I _deserve_ to live with the truth of what I've done."

"Is that what Aslan told you?" Peter inquired. Edmund stared at him, struck dumb. Though he did not answer, Peter could read the truth in his eyes. Shame was written there, along with realization and reluctant acquiescence.

Oh, how he wished he could make this easier on Edmund! Tenderly, Peter took his brother's turned face in his hand and stroked the pale line of his jaw. Edmund startled briefly at the touch, then exhaled and seemed to melt into his hand. Closing his eyes, Edmund wordlessly accepted the comforting caress that reached where words could not. Literate as he was in the study of Edmund's face, Peter could read his gathered brows, glistening eyelashes, quivering mouth, and did not need to be told in words that Edmund had wanted to feel his closeness for a long while. He had simply been too afraid to ask.

Peter clasped him firmly behind his neck, taking in this revelation. Other than the occasional spar or swordsmanship lesson, they were not accustomed to being physically close, the way he and Susan and Lucy naturally and unconsciously were. Susan would often take his hand in the throne room during long monotonous court proceedings, running her fingers knowingly over his knuckles in a pattern that spelled out "Stay awake!" And Lucy had _always_ been the first to jump into their arms and pepper them with kisses and snuggle relentlessly on whoever had an open lap in the evening when they unwound by the fire.

But Edmund had always been the stand-offish kind – or at least, for the past several years, ever since that blighted boarding school had changed him so. He rejected even their own mother's kiss, those long months ago at the train station. Peter had simply grown used to Edmund's aversion to physical contact and did not attempt to include him when sharing those quiet moments with their sisters. He had not stopped to consider that perhaps Edmund secretly wanted to join them but was too shy or awkward to ask them himself. Edmund always seemed content to pour over his books by the firelight, but looking back, Peter remembered the way he would catch him staring wistfully at the three of them curled up together in blankets, before noticing Peter's gaze and turning quickly away.

He did not turn away now. Peter put his arm around Edmund's shoulder, holding him securely though aware of his uncertainty at the unfamiliar touch. It seemed so simple, really, now that he thought about it. Edmund just wanted to _belong._ And Peter wanted his brother to belong to _him_. And right then and there, he did.

* * *

"Tell me how it happened," Edmund murmured, eyes still pressed closed, holding Peter's hand against his shoulder.

And so Peter told him, as plainly and kindly and honestly as he could, about how Aslan came to the Stone Table in willing exchange for his life, and how the Deeper Magic worked death in reverse till every drop spilled by the Witch's stone dagger was repaid in full and Aslan's roar could be heard in every corner of Narnia again.

Edmund listened to all this without speaking, but rather than the grief Peter expected to come with this knowledge, Edmund's face spoke of wonderment, and awe, and humbleness and astonishment, and finally tranquility in the full knowledge of the depth of Aslan's love for him. And when he wept, he wept tears of joy.

* * *

_So let mercy come and wash away what I've done_

* * *

Over the idyllic scene of the two brothers sleeping, one arm flung about each other, a shadowy pall fell with the silent approach of the dread spirit. The wind rustled the dried crackling shape as it moved, blackened rags flapping wildly, till it had reached the still form of the High King and loomed over him like a giant black bat, limbs out-stretched to take what it had come for…


	3. Safe

**A/N: **Here's where it gets good. Since I enjoy providing the soundtrack to the chapter, "In My Arms" by Plumb sets the mood nicely (and is the source of the occasional quote here and there).

* * *

Peter was driving Whicker further into the fray, slashing Rhindon furiously at the onslaught of horrid flying things and giant lumbering fiends. He had never encountered monsters like them before, and had no name for them, but they swirled in bizarre inhuman ways that made his eyes swim from the moving mass of darkness. There seemed no end to their number, rather they multiplied the more he bore down on them.

With the tide of monsters came an overwhelming feeling of horror that stiffened Peter's body and made it impossible to swing his blade. He opened his mouth to cry out but no sound came forth, only silent screams. _I will die, die unless I can fight! _

His eyes darted feverishly around for assistance, but he could only see darkness and demons around him. No. Not all. There, at the edge of his vision, he could see Edmund, fighting with all his might, consumed with battle rage as he was wont to do, but this time it was a losing fight. They were too many, even for a King, even for Aslan's Chosen, and they were descending upon Edmund like a huge black cloud of bees, ready to deliver their stinging blow. Edmund could not hold onto his blade under their crushing weight, and he was helpless. Just as Peter was.

He watched them tear Edmund to pieces before his eyes, destroying his brother, whom he had sworn to protect. _Look after the others. I will Mum. Except when I can't. Except when I let him die._

Darkness overcame Peter, and just before he fell underneath its surface, his mouth opened and he cried, _"Edmund!"_

* * *

_Castles they might crumble, dreams may not come true…_

* * *

Surely this was no afterlife? Although his vision was clouded with a great mist much as he had heard heaven was like, Peter felt a great dread like a weight over his shoulders. He shuddered uncontrollably. Through the mist he heard what sounded like someone breathing very heavy. Then –

A terrible scream like a thousand shrieking demons filled his ears, and it was no use to cover them. As his head rang with the inescapable clamor, Peter could feel the oppressive dread lift and fly away from his body. He never knew how _wonderful_ it felt not to feel as though one was about to die.

Peter found that he could move again, and slowly his vision was returning. And _Edmund _swam into his sight – beautiful, breathing old Ed, kneeling over him with the strangest look on his face. Peter thought he must look that exact way.

"You're not dead," Peter murmured. "You're not dead." He scrabbled for Edmund's hands – the exact location of his arms and legs was still a little fuzzy – and caught hold of his brother's fingers, which were shaking slightly. "Help me up?" asked Peter, and Edmund pulled him up to a sitting position, holding his hand as though he would never let it go.

"What in Aslan's name _was_ that?" Peter glanced around, but all he saw was darkness. It did not swirl at all, though. He felt around for Rhindon, till he put his hand on the familiar, comforting edges of its hilt.

"A Boggle," said Edmund in a trembly voice. "I've read about them. They like to come out at night and bother people. They – they bring visions. Nightmares. You think they're really coming true when you're in them." With the hand that was not clutching Peter's, Edmund reached up to touch Peter's face, assuring himself that he was real. "I _heard_ you. I heard you call my name. That was how I – got out –"

Edmund looked sick. Peter wondered if Edmund's nightmare had been anything like his own. "Was it very bad?" he asked, as if that would even begin to describe the terror of it.

"Yes," said Edmund plainly. Peter knew he would not freely speak of it, for Edmund had never talked about the dreams that often made him cry out in the night when they had journeyed together before. Nor had he explained the things Lucy saw when she crept in to kiss him goodnight and found him asleep, clutching the bedsheets and sobbing "No! No!" as he thrashed about in the bed. Did he think no one else had dark dreams, that he would be ridiculed or scoffed at if he shared them? Didn't Lucy ever crawl into bed beside him, as she had with Peter and Susan, after awaking from yet another vivid dream about the Stone Table? Did he not see Susan's face on the mornings when she had dreamt of home, and Mum, and a soldier bringing a death notice about Dad? Or did he think Peter was immune to such things, that he would never have troubled visions of failing his Aslan-given duties to his family and country?

Well, Edmund might not want to share his, but Peter did. "Ed, I dreamed we were in battle. I was losing, and paralyzed, and you – you were losing too. And I couldn't do anything at all to save you from the demons. I let you die. Now tell me yours is worse than that."

Edmund never loosened his grip on his hand. "It was worse. And that's when I heard you shout my name. You must have called out in your dream. I woke up, and I saw the Boggle leaning over you. It looked like a horrid scarecrow, all rotten and foul. It was – well, it looked like it was trying to swallow you up." He paused.

"And?" urged Peter. "How did you get rid of it?"

"The only way you can get rid of a Boggle," Edmund said. "Surprise it. I had no time to reach for my sword. I just came up behind it and kicked the living daylights out of it."

Peter sat for a moment, absorbing all of this. "By Aslan, Edmund, that's the third time you've come to _my _ rescue. I suppose 'thanks' doesn't quite cover it?" He looked closely at Edmund, scanning his face for any traces of distress from the ordeal, as Ed seemed doggedly determined not to talk about it.

"You shouldn't thank me," insisted Edmund. "I couldn't let it – do anything, to you. I just saw it and knew it wanted _you_, and I just – fought like the dickens to stop it from getting you." His face flickered with grief, memories crossing his forehead in visible shadows and worry lines. "At least, this time I could do something."

"This time?" Peter searched his brother's eyes for the frankness Edmund could not hide from his gaze. "Were there – times you couldn't?"

Edmund nodded, regretfulness written all over him. And suddenly all the words spilled out of him. "In my dream, you know. There was – a Hag and she cast a spell on you and then she turned into…well, nevermind – but I'm no sorcerer, Peter, and I couldn't undo the spell and so you – froze to death."

His eyes shone almost black in the darkness before dawn, as the scant moonlight was almost gone.

"That was just a dream, Edmund." _Please, don't look like that Ed. Like you're cornered and can't get out of it. _Peter took him by the shoulders and looked straight into Edmund's dark haunted eyes. "It wasn't real. It's over now. I won't them get either of us." He gripped Edmund firmly, hoping he could hear him and believe.

Edmund looked lostly at him for a long moment, then crumpled into his arms. Peter caught him instinctively and pulled him close in a tight embrace. Edmund was trembling from head to foot, drawing in great shuddering breaths, and Peter could feel his heart racing against his side through their thin shirtsleeves. "I thought I'd lost you," Edmund breathed into him.

Peter was afraid he would say exactly the wrong thing, so he simply held his brother and kept out the dark world and all its shadows.

* * *

_Clouds will rage and storms will race in but you will be safe, in my arms…_

* * *

The first pinkish tinge of sunlight started to peek through the trees, though the woods themselves were yet dusky and still. Neither of them slept, yet it was refreshment enough to know that they were safe from the terrors of dreams so long as they clung to each other.

Peter from time to time would glance at the dark head of curls that was nestled under his chin, wishing he could keep Edmund safe in his arms for all time, knowing that of all of them Edmund was the one who needed that safety the most, who pleaded silently for someone to heal his wounds. His heart was torn, knowing someday he would know the truth from lies and be able to accept their love without fear.

While Peter lingered there offering what comfort he could, he breathed in deeply and felt growing consolation for his own phantasm from Edmund's turning to him for protection and reassurance. He couldn't remember the last time Edmund had hugged him like this, like he truly _needed _him. It had been years – back when Ed was just a little lost boy, first sent away to a boarding school outside of London – years since Peter had been this close to his young brother. And for the first time in years, Edmund reminded him of that little boy who use to adore him…not just grudgingly obey or respect or follow him to prove he could do anything Peter could do…but truly love him. He missed that Edmund. More than words could say. And so he held onto him with all his might.

When one is King, there are few moments in which to let one's guard down and simply be completely laid bare before an other. And in Edmund's stark embrace, Peter did not have to be a High King. He just had to be a brother.

* * *

_Storybooks are full of fairytales, of Kings and Queens, and the bluest Skies…_

* * *

"It is morning, at last," Edmund said, his head turned against Peter's chest to look towards the eastern horizon. "I am always glad to see the sun rise."

"I know what you mean," Peter replied quietly, and Edmund twisted his head to look up at him with a keen glance. "Well – it's hope," he explained, feeling foolish. "A new day, a fresh start. At least that's how the stories always went."

Edmund nodded, though he looked as though he had been secretly hoping for a different answer. He sighed. "It's so peaceful here. Hard to believe evil is still lurking out there somewhere."

Peter drew his gaze from the filter of sunlight on the edge of the trees to stare hard at his brother. "Ed," he said thickly, "you don't have to…I mean…there may be things waiting for us worse than Boggles. You can still –"

"No, I couldn't, even if I wanted to," said Edmund, conviction in his voice. "I'm here by Aslan's wishes. Not mine. He'll – he'll give me the strength for all those things, when the time comes."

Edmund was right of course, but that didn't mean Peter wouldn't still worry. He gave Edmund one last squeeze before standing up and pulling him with him. "Right you are," Peter assured him. "And – Ed – you do know – I will be there, beside you, no matter what. Don't be afraid to ask for help." Peter smiled. "It's kind of what brothers are there for."

He got a small smile in return. "Thanks, Peter," muttered Edmund, gruff all of a sudden. He stepped back and took Peter's hand in his and gave it a firm grasp. "You're a brick. I've been blubbering all over you…"

"They will never pry it out of me," said Peter solemnly, the hints of a grin at the corners of his mouth. He brought Edmund's hand to his breast and pressed it there against his heart. "Brother's honor."

Something jagged and faintly red caught his peripheral vision. Peter looked down at their clasped hands. There upon Edmund's wrist was a long stripe of blood where the skin had been slashed. It was not a fresh wound.

Peter frowned, taking it in his hand. "Edmund. This is not from the Boggle, is it? This is a dagger wound. Who did this?"

Edmund bit his lip. "I –" He paused for a moment, and Peter expected him to fabricate an account of a mishap during sparring practice, or clumsiness during packing or some such nonsense. Instead, Edmund seemed to search for the courage to give him the truth. He glanced up, quickly looking back down, a profound sadness clouding his eyes. "I – Peter, there's a lot I never told you."

"I'll say! What's all this, Ed? The knife wound. The nightmares. Not talking to any of us, or when you do you blow up in our face!"

Edmund snatched his hand away from Peter. "It's not as simple for me as it was for all you! Can't you understand that?" One finger traced the laceration that coursed up his wrist. "I never was a part of your _club_ to start with. I didn't just get a free pass to join, just because we all got to be Kings and Queens together!"

Peter stared at him. "What are you talking about? We're a _family , _Ed. _Your_ family. The only one you've got. Why can't you just _get out of your own head_ and join us for a change?"

_Why can't you. Why can't you just do as you're told. Why can't you, why can't you_, mocked the echoes of his words.

Edmund's eyes widened. Peter knew he had not missed the echoes either. He could see the paleness of his face, the dark heavy brows draw together in the old response, rebellious as ever. "It's just that easy for you, isn't it?" Edmund retorted. "Everything would always be so easy if I just listened to you. But I have to be _difficult._"

"What do I have to do to make things easy for you, then?" demanded Peter. "Shall I let you do whatever you like? Just go into your own world whenever it suits your fancy, just to call yourself the loner? Remember what happened the last time you did that, _your Majesty?_ Shall I remind you?"

Edmund's face went even paler, and his mouth twisted in a cringe. But Peter couldn't stop. Visions of the Boggle's phantasm danced before him, throwing Edmund's lifeless body into his arms. And he knew he would do what he had to before it happened.

"I know!" exclaimed Peter, hating the taunting edge in his voice, trying to goad his brother into telling him something, _anything_. "I shall let the just King have – _accidents_ with knives whenever he pleases. That won't be hard to explain at all, especially considering how quickly he jumps at the chance to hunt down a monster."

This wasn't fair, but neither was a brother who couldn't trust him enough to tell him when something was so desperately wrong.

"Or perhaps it would please him best of all to have no one to say no to him," continued Peter without mercy. "Shall I hand you the sceptre and crown you High King, see how you like that for a change? Crow over me, make me bow down and follow you for once? That's what you secretly wanted, wasn't it? When you went to _Her?"_

Edmund staggered back as if Peter had struck him. He was white as a sheet. His words came out no louder than a whisper. "I never meant – never meant it to go that far." His voice shook. "Never wanted any of it. Even when you drove me away, even when you looked at me as if I was the most poisonous snake on earth, I never wanted _you_ to die."

"It is only for yourself you wish it, then?" Peter said, gesturing to the jagged proof written on Edmund's arm. He did not let his face betray the cold condemnation that flooded his body at Edmund's speech. He was good at being strong. He was so strong, he could push his own brother straight into the jaws of evil.

"There is much you don't know, Peter." Edmund half wrapped his arms around himself as though cold or fearful. Peter suddenly longed to take Edmund in his arms again and protect him from the cruel words he was so quick to throw at him. But it was too late for that. Edmund was drawing into himself as he always did when pushed. And for all his efforts, Peter had only succeeded in driving the wedge deeper.

Edmund took several steps back. His eyes - so vulnerable, overflowing with misery that Peter could not heal - betrayed the damage that had been done. "I wish I'd never told you anything," he said, still shivering. He turned, and Peter could barely hear his next words. "You never understand."

Peter did nothing to stop him go, watching the slight figure rejoin the just-waking camp deeper in the forest, until it had disappeared. Then his face fell in his hands, and his shoulders bowed with the weight of shame and regret, and the High King let himself be weak, alone.

* * *

_Rains will pour down_

_Waves will crash all around_

_But you would have been safe, in my arms_

* * *

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